A seal still warm, and the respect due to it

There was one on the table this morning with the wax still soft under my wing when I lifted it, which told me somebody had only just done the sealing and hadn't thought to let it set before sending it out into the world with the likes of me. I forgave this, as I forgive most things before noon.

A wax seal is not a sticker. I want that understood. A sticker is a shrug. A seal is a decision. Somebody heated something and pressed something down and meant it, and a letter that's been sealed like that travels differently in the bag, sits straighter against my chest feathers, as if it knows its own worth.

I gave it the window side of the satchel, out of the damp, and I did not let the dog on Harbour Road anywhere near it, which is more than that letter will ever know I did for it.

By the time I'd got it where it was going the wax had gone hard and proper, the way it ought to be, and I tapped it once with my beak before I let it drop through the box, not to open it, obviously, but just so it knew somebody along the way had noticed it was done right.

That's the job. Noticing. Most people don't.